


ultraviolence

by betamax524



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Emma Frost HBIC, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mutant Politics, Other, Possessive Behavior, Protective Erik, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Shaw gets what he deserves, Shaw is Creepy, not darkfic, there's a happy ending in here don't worry, this is gonna end up lighter than what the tags imply tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betamax524/pseuds/betamax524
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kicked out of his family estate, Charles somehow survives by doing odd jobs and the occasional petty theft. But when his latest “victim” turns out to be the sister of the notorious Don Lehnsherr, he finds himself dragged deep into the Genoshan underground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. only liars, but we're the best

**Author's Note:**

> all graphics are by me. based off my own prompt over on tumblr, lmao.

Charles meticulously rubs a clean rag over one of the tables in Moira's café, losing himself in the simple rhythm. He's pretty sure he can get by for another day or so with the money Moira gives him, and hopefully he can convince her to pack up some leftovers to bring home. The bell chimes, signalling a customer, and Charles looks up to see a regal-looking woman dressed in purely white. She has good money, he deduces, because people that are really rich don't go around flaunting their wealth to everyone. Her earrings and watch are genuine, for one, and the casual disregard she has for her branded purse confirms his suspicions.

It had been at least six months since he was unceremoniously kicked out of the Xavier estate, but Charles was pretty sure he still had an idea of what would sell well. A watch he had nicked from some overconfident man one month ago had paid off the rest of his rent for the year. If he gets anything from this woman, even the dainty ring on her index finger, he won't have to worry about food for a good month or so.

He moves on to cleaning the next table, still keeping on eye on the woman. It's almost closing time, so he glances around quickly, and then carefully tries to get inside her mind. It's just as easy as it usually is, and he finds out that she plans to visit a store a few blocks away after finishing her drink. She's almost done with her drink, and Charles is innocently packing up his things and getting ready to go. He knows that shop, and he knows how to get there quicker.

He's shoving unsold pastries and a bread knife into his backpack when the woman returns her mug to the counter with a sly smile. After a few minutes pretending to be interested in cleaning the counter top, he waves goodbye to Moira and makes his way to the back door.

She has at least five minutes on him now, but he can sense that she's taking her time, so Charles zips down alleys to make sure he gets to the shop before she can. He goes over the route he saw in her head, and ends up a block from the store, hiding in another alley way. She's coming closer, and he straightens up, getting ready to strike. Anything he gets from her will be going to a good cause, he reminds himself, his survival. Just as she passes by him, he walks out of the alley, wrapping an arm around her waist in a parody of a lover, while discreetly aiming a knife at her side.

"If you keep quiet, ma'am, then I'll try not to hurt you," he whispers in a low voice, keeping up with her confident stride.

"Oh, that's not going to be a problem," she says smugly, and before Charles can react, there's a sharp pain in his forehead that makes him fall down to his knees, and the last thing he remembers is the woman taking out her phone.

*

_"You'll be rewarded for your help, of course," the voice at the other end says smoothly, "After all, you're one of our most valuable associates."_

_"I expect nothing less," is the calm reply._

Outside the store, two men in suits carry an unconscious man into the back of a limousine, with a woman slipping inside afterwards. The clerk looks up once, and just so happens to look into woman's eyes. A few seconds later, the clerk shakes their head and goes back to work, looking over financial journals.

They receive a call a few moments later from an unknown number that informs them of a sizable sum being deposited into their bank account.

*

Charles shuffles, and he vaguely feels the cuffs at his wrists and at his legs, distracted by the pounding in his head. He groans, letting his head droop, when he hears a voice. "Headache?" it asks flatly. Charles grunts in response, and he hears steps coming closer with the order "Open your mouth." A pill is placed on his tongue, then followed up with a glass of water. Charles closes his eyes and drifts off into sleep.

*

Erik patiently counts the handguns arranged on the table, if only to watch the man in front of him get more uncomfortable with each passing second. "I'm still not sure what to do with you," he says calmly, "So give me a good reason to keep you alive." The man opens his mouth to reply, but Erik simply puts up his hand to silence him. "You won't mind me testing this one, would you?"

"No, n-not at all sir-" is all the man can say before two bullets hit him in the chest.

"That was a rhetorical question," Erik says, moving to stand over him. "Besides, I don't accept botched merchandise." He casually reaches out with his powers to transform the bullets into small blades, and steps on the man's back for good measure.

"What do we do with these?" Azazel asks, gesturing to the useless handguns.

"Load them with explosives and have Betsy give them to the Stark underlings as a peace offering," Erik replies flatly.

"You have unique ideas about peace, Sir," Azazel says, shaking his head as he gathers the guns into one bag. Erik gives a noncommittal grunt in response, and kicks at the man's corpse. There's no response, but Erik makes sure with a swift kick to the head.

"Have Alex clean this place out," he orders, stepping over the body and walking towards the door. "I want no traces of both this man and this building. After that," he continues, glancing downwards, "Tell him to buy me a new pair of shoes."

*

There's this sensation of ice cold wind biting inside his head, and Charles irritably attempts to shake it away, waking up in the process. Eyes adjusting to the light, he sees the woman looking down at him with a satisfied smile, and right beside her is an imposing man in a dark suit.

"Charles Francis Xavier," the man drawls, half of his mouth curling into a smirk. He's leaning against a dark wood table, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, and there's this sharp jolt of unease in Charles' stomach.

"What do you know about me," Charles says, his voice hoarse from sleep and fear. The man's mouth slowly spreads into a dangerous looking smile that shows off his teeth.

" _Everything_ ," is the smug reply.


	2. the lies i weave are oh-so intricate

"You can't possibly know _everything_ about me," Charles protests weakly, anxiously biting his lower lip. He's trying to think of who even knows his real name in this city, let alone his whole past. The man takes a hit from his cigarette, looking over Charles like he's some sort of merchandise to be appraised. Charles tries very hard not to think about what that look could mean.

"Charles," the man says, drawing out the syllables in his name, "I'm here to make you an offer." He steps closer and Charles finds himself tensing, leaning further against the chair he's currently shackled to. "I know what it's like to have everything taken away from you," he continues, gently running the knuckles of his free hand against Charles' cheek. " _I can make Kurt Marko regret every decision he's made_."

The sound of his stepfather's name snaps Charles awake, and he shifts a bit so he can look the other man in the eyes. "And how are you going to do that?" he asks, because he knows very well just how powerful Kurt is and the kind of influence he holds. Kurt was the one who managed to convince Sharon, his mother, to completely write him out of his inheritance after all.

"You see, Kurt is still woefully ignorant of just how much power you have, Charles," the man replies, turning around slightly to snuff out his cigarette in an ashtray. "And I know a thing or two about power," he adds, and with a snap of his fingers, the cuffs around Charles' wrists simply fall to the floor. "I can give back everything you've lost, and even _more_."

"There's some catch to all of this, isn't there?" Charles says, rubbing at his newly freed wrists.

"Equivalent exchange," the man replies, shrugging one shoulder, "I give you what you want, and you give me what I want in return."

"What, am I just supposed to be your kept whore?" he spits, hoping that his anger conceals his fear and something else coursing through his blood.

"Oh sugar, Don Lehnsherr here won't settle for your average streetwalker," the woman croons, coming closer to run a hand through his hair, pulling slightly so she can angle his face upwards. "You should consider yourself lucky. If any lesser man had set his eyes on you, I don't think they'd even care to discuss a deal with you, let alone treat you like someone capable of independent thought." A chill runs through his spine as the woman carefully inspects his face.

"You can still refuse, of course," the man, Don Lehnsherr, adds, "Emma here will wipe your memory of this encounter, and the Brotherhood will leave you alone for the rest of your life." Taking a few steps forwards, he straightens his suit as he continues, "Of course, this means you'll be on your own, and we won't be held responsible for anything that happens to you after that."

"What do you mean?" Charles asks.

"If you accept my offer, no one else can lay a hand on you, let alone look at you the wrong way, without suffering the consequences." Don Lehnsherr replies, leaning down until his face is inches from Charles'. "I can have someone disposed of, if you just say the word."

"What if... What if I want you to get rid of Kurt Marko?" Charles says, looking Don Lehnsherr straight in the eyes, the man's words swimming in his head and drawing out his darkest dreams of revenge.

"Then you and I are going to get along _perfectly_ ," Lehnsherr replies, a grin slowly spreading on his face.

*

Logan gets out of his car, grumbling as he makes his way to the police station. He's picking at the pins and badges he's required to wear when someone calls out his name. "Officer Howlett," the voice says, "There's, uh, there's someone waiting for you in your office. Says he's been assigned here, Sir." He turns around to find the Cassidy kid standing there, holding a folder in his hands. He huffs, and steps closer to him, taking the folder from his hands.

"What's he like?" he asks with a low voice, making sure no one else can hear him. The files in this folder all have stunning things to say about this fresh face, a blond-haired young man named Steve Rogers. Logan wrinkles his nose, trying to figure out why a man like him would be sent to a place like this.

"Seems like he'll be a problem," Cassidy replies darkly, canting his head the slightest bit sideways, enough for a tattoo to peek out from under his jacket's collar. "Boss isn't going to like this."

"No, he definitely won't," Logan says, shuffling the files back into the folder. "Kid's gonna get eaten alive in here." He still remembers the young man from three years ago. Bright-eyed and idealistic to the point of naivety, Logan had warned him about sticking his nose into other's business, but to no avail. Five months after being assigned to the Genosha police district, he was being shipped back to his family in a white coffin. He told the man's weeping mother that he had been killed while on patrol, sacrificing his life to save a young girl, and he let her cry on his shoulder for her poor little boy as he continued with his perfectly practiced speech. _We're so sorry_ , he told her, _he had such a promising future ahead of him_ , _the people really respected him_.

She didn't need to know about the tattoo on his back. She didn't need to know where his true loyalties lied.

"It's not your fault, Officer," Cassidy says suddenly, as if reading his mind. "You warned him. You warned them all."

"Let's just hope this one actually listens," he replies, stuffing the folder under his left arm and making his way to his office.

*

Charles sinks deeper into the leather chair, stunned beyond belief. In front of him, Don Lehnsherr is skimming through some papers, scribbling in notes every so often. It would be just like your average business transaction, if not for the ornate dagger ominously placed on the table. The sound of papers being shuffled snaps him out of deeper thought, and Charles simply stares at the papers being handed to him. "Well," Don Lehnsherr says, "We don't exactly have all day, Charles," and he replies with a huff, taking the papers and leafing through them.

"Alright, I'm ready to sign," he says, motioning for a pen. But Lehnsherr simply smirks and hands him the ornate dagger.

"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," Lehnsherr says calmly, "That's what we believe. That's what this Brotherhood is built on. So instead of a signature, we ask for a few drops of blood."

"You're serious," Charles says, slowly taking the dagger with a trembling hand.

"If you can't do it yourself, I can do it for you just fine," Lehnsherr replies, casually reaching across the table for Charles' left arm. He runs his fingers from Charles' wrist to the inside of his elbow, and Charles most definitely does not shiver at the physical contact. With a simple gesture, the dagger floats into his other hand, and he looks Charles in the eyes. "Are you ready for this?"

"Let's find out," Charles says, meeting Lehnsherr's gaze head-on. He flinches when he feels the cool metal brush against his skin, but he takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw tightly. He's going to survive this, he reasons with himself, he's dealt with worse.

"I need you to relax," Lehnsherr whispers, so Charles fidgets a bit, before taking another deep breath and closing his eyes. He feels a sharp pain, and his left arm tenses as he feels his own blood slowly trickling down. It's like his arm is being held in place for forever, so Charles breathes through his nose and focuses on the feel of his fingernails digging grooves into his palm. After a while, there's this cool sensation where the pain once was, and Charles opens his eyes to find Lehnsherr carefully cleaning up the wound and dressing it.

"So that's it," Charles says softly, staring at the bandage on his arm.

"That's it," Lehnsherr confirms, wiping the dagger clean. "Janos here will take you to your room. He'll be assigned for you from this point forwards," he adds, motioning to a young man standing in the corner of the room, who comes forward and bows. "We'll deal with cleaning up your... _outside_ connections tomorrow. You should rest."

"This way, Sir," Janos says, gesturing to the door, and Charles nods mutely before he follows.

*

"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Erik," Emma says, "If anyone catches wind of Don Lehnsherr having another weakness, this game is going to get even more dangerous."

"Remind me again, Emma," Erik replies, exhaling a plume of smoke out an open window. "What did I do when that Namor let slip that he had some of his underlings tracking you?"

"You gouged out their eyes and presented them to him as a gift," Emma says with a sigh.

"Exactly," Erik says through another plume of smoke, "Anyone foolish enough to aim at my so-called _weaknesses_ will pay dearly."

"Including Kurt Marko?" Emma asks.

" _Especially_ Kurt Marko."


End file.
